There was something beautiful in the mail a few days ago. I knew what it was before I opened it.

“I have always loved this book,” the sender had told me, “but I am nearing the end of my life and would love to find a good home for it.”

^[1]

She had thought of me because I shared the same route with the dudes in the book.

I didn’t know what to say. It was too overwhelming.

…

But I accepted. When I found out we both shared a love for photography, I asked her to put a picture of herself inside the book. I promised to later add my own photograph as well.

That way, if eventually the day came to pass it on to the next friend, her memory would still be inside the book, along with my own.

I haven’t started reading from it yet. I am looking for a suitable place to put it first:

^[2]

“Pekin to Paris. An Account of Prince Borghese’s Journey across two Continents in a Motor-Car. By Luigi Barzini.”

Books used to really have titles in the old days, I thought.

^[3]

But would it feel comfortable around my other books?

I was unsure, most of them suddenly seemed so…

^[4]

…ordinary.

…

When I found the picture she had put in the book, a black and white shot from 1946…

^[5]

…my mind went blank for a second.

There was something in my eye.

Tears? I blamed them on

the surgery ^[6].

Then I had to smile.

…

Thank you my friend, I thought.

Don’t you worry, your book

is with me now.

And I will keep it well.

…

Soundtrack: Georges Moustaki  – “J’ai Vu Des Rois Serviles”